


Swagger

by okapi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur's Dream, Dream Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 07:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Eames' way of moving was, Arthur noted, pure swagger.PWP. Arthur/Eames. Dream sex. For Dick-or-treat 2019.





	Swagger

**Author's Note:**

> Also for the DW 100 fandoms prompt .044: fantasy.

The rounded spines of bolts of fabric stood upright like books on a shelf, each a slightly different shade of gray. Arthur reached a hand out and ran his fingertips along the soft undulations, noting the variation in textures.

Words surfaced.

Herringbone, houndstooth. Stone, charcoal.

A bell jangled.

Arthur turned his head toward the sound.

“Eames.”

“Fancy meeting you here, Arthur.”

Arthur quickly turned back as a blush warmed his cheeks. He glued his eyes to the thick book of fabric swatches which lay atop the glass counter. A faint voice called from somewhere.

“ _Just a moment, sir!_ ”   

“Take your time,” answered Eames. His voice was its usual low, easy growl.  

Arthur looked over his shoulder and watched Eames wander about the shop.

Another word surfaced.

Swagger.

Eames was a forger and a thief. Awake, he could imitate a dozen ways of walking. In dreams, hundreds of dozens. But his own way of moving was, Arthur noted, pure swagger.

“How ‘bout a paisley waistcoat, just for me, darling?”

Eames’ breath caressed the nape of Arthur’s neck. The tiny hairs there stood up straight, and a thin current of electricity ran along Arthur’s spine.

Arthur gave another quick glance behind him.

Eames’ shirt was dark teal with a gold-and-burgundy paisley print, something that Arthur wouldn’t be caught dead wearing as waistcoat, tie, pocket handkerchief, or anything else.

Arthur shook his head.

“Too bad,” said Eames as his eyes dropped. His scrutiny of Arthur was much like that of a tailor, appraising, measuring, assessing.

To his own horror, Arthur suddenly realized that he’d forgotten what he was wearing, but it didn’t matter because Eames was speaking.

“I’ve got the wrong genes.” Eames strode towards a colorful display of ties. His back was to Arthur. His shirt, though hideous and wrinkled, was tucked in.

Arthur’s gaze fell to Eames’ belt, then lower to denim. “Not from where I’m standing,” he said.

Eames turned.

Their eyes met, and Arthur’s reserve, his inhibitions, his self-consciousness, his sense of self-preservation, everything holding him back, holding him in, evaporated in the heat of Eames’ gaze.

There was no mistake. No margin for error or embarrassment.

Arthur was wanted. Badly.

And the wonder of it all was that he wanted Eames just as badly.

But Eames was moving on.

“Cheeky Arthur,” he said lightly. He reached a hand out and slid a peach-colored swathe of silk between two fingers. Then he turned to face Arthur. “I mean I dream of alpine hospitals and snowy chateaus because those are the only places where I don’t sweat. You, on the other hand, can show up in the tropics in seven layers of Savile Row and not ooze a bead. Not fair. Especially when you spend most of your time in air-conditioned hotels and I always wind up in some patch of the devil’s own arm pit.”

Arthur watched Eames’ lips form words. At last, apropos of absolutely nothing, he said,

“Snake charmer.”

Eames grinned.  “Just the one in your pants, darling. Ready?”

Arthur nodded and let Eames lead him by the hand.

* * *

 

Arthur stood on a short pedestal before an array of three full-length mirrors. At his feet, there was a hunched old man with a tape measure around his neck.

Arthur looked in the mirror and saw Eames’ reflection in place of the tailor. Eames lifted his head and winked.

Then there was a nuzzling at Arthur’s half-hard prick.

Arthur closed his eyes.

“Watch.”

Arthur opened his eyes.

Eames was kneeling before him, both in the mirror and, Arthur dropped his chin to his chest, out of it. The teal shirt was unbuttoned and hanging loosely on Eames’ shoulders. At the sight of Eames’ bare chest, Arthur’s prick sprang to full attention.

“There we go,” murmured Eames, then he stuck his tongue out and licked a lascivious wet stripe up the front of Arthur’s trousers. “Mm?”

“Yes,” breathed Arthur.

“I’ve got the lower half, darling. You take care of the rest.”

Arthur unbuttoned the last three buttons of his shirt and pulled the shirttails away. He heard a clank of a belt buckle, or two, then started at a jolt of cool air. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a knight going into battle without his suit of armor.

But not for long.

Arthur groaned aloud at the first brush Eames’ lips to his prick. It was a sexy, sweet, and utterly charming, a lover’s ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’ type of kiss, and it was followed by the sudden, glorious wet heat of Eames’ mouth enveloping the whole prickhead and half of Arthur’s shaft in one go.

Just a preview. Just a confirmation that Eames wasn’t a tease or a rookie.  Arthur was going to get blown, well and good and right-the-fuck now.

Arthur pressed his lips tightly together, then rocked once into Eames.  Too soon to be fucking his mouth, but Arthur was so greedy, so needy, so unabashedly wanton. After all, it was just fantasy.

Eames brought his hands to Arthur’s hips, steadying them both as he began to bob and suck.

Arthur held his shirttails back with one hand, rested the other hand on Eames’ head and, valiantly hanging by a thin thread of composure, watched.

Those lips. God. How much time had Arthur spent thinking about Eames’ lips? And here they were, spreading around his prick. Over and over. Nice, thick, shiny, pink, utterly kissable, utterly fuckable lips. How many times had Arthur wanted to yank away the pen or lollipop or toothpick or whatever else Eames was fellating and offer him this instead?

And the heat! That tight, wet heat. Nothing was as perfect as Eames’ mouth when he sucked Arthur like this. Nothing felt as good as Eames’ tongue teasing Arthur’s slit, swirling around his shaft, wiggling and tickling him. Playful, but knowing just what Arthur needed.

Arthur didn’t deserve this, not in real life, but in his dreams, that didn’t seem to matter so much.

Or at all.

Eames took more of Arthur, then all of Arthur, then hummed. The vibration went straight to Arthur’s core, stoking his red-hot lust to a near inferno. He felt his prickhead brush the back of Eames throat. He was sunk to the hilt. Eames’ was taking every single inch of him. It was incredible.

Arthur ran his hand down the back of Eames’ head until his fingers found the damp skin at the nape of Eames’ neck.

He was sweating. Arthur was making him sweat. Blowing Arthur was making Eames sweat.

“Fuck!” Arthur whispered with a ragged exhale. He couldn’t help it, the obscenity or the fact that his hips began to move, to thrust minutely into Eames’ mouth. He needed it so badly. He needed to find his release in that tight, wet heat.

But just as Arthur’s lust coiled and his body tensed, Eames pulled off completely.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open. He cried out.

“No!”

Eames said nothing. He simply gave Arthur’s thigh a chaste peck and grinned and ducked low. Then he licked Arthur’s balls and the underside of Arthur’s prick, from base to head.  

Arthur gripped the sides of his shirt with two fists and ripped. He heard rending thread and flying buttons, sounds that usually made him cringe, but all he could think about was putting two hands on Eames’ head and thrusting. Hard.

“Eames, please.”

Eames’ grip on Arthur’s hips became vise-like, and that was all the encouragement Arthur needed.

He fucked Eames’ mouth and, within three thrusts, had spent his load straight down Eames’ throat.

* * *

 

But that wasn’t the end.

Eames released Arthur and put his hand behind him.

Arthur watched, mesmerized, as the teal shirt fluttered to the floor and Eames’ bare back was revealed. There was a wide gap between Eames’ waist and the top of his jeans. When Arthur looked down, he saw the cleft of Eames’ buttocks.

“Oh, god.”

Eames stood up slowly, and as he did so, Arthur’s hands ran along his back and pushed the jeans farther down.

Arthur groaned into the side of Eames’ neck. He shoved one hand in Eames’ jeans and cupped a buttock. He drew the other hand came around front, between Eames’ legs.

Eames’ ass. His prick. Both in Arthur’s hands. It was as if Arthur was holding Eames’ swagger itself.

“Tut-tut,” whispered Eames. “Mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

Arthur heard a lovely rumble and realized it was his own laughter. He giggled as the bulge against his palm swelled to stallion size. “Such a prick, Eames.”

“Takes one to know one, luv.”

* * *

 

Arthur was naked. Eames was naked.

Looking down Eames’ back to the curve of his buttocks, Arthur found himself craving the feel of Eames’ skin beneath his fingertips and rubbing against his own.

He caressed everywhere he could reach, his hands crisscrossing Eames’ back and waist and chest and upper arms. He licked Eames’ nipples to hard buttons and rubbed closed lips against the ridge of Eames’ shoulder. He buried his teeth in the curve of Eames’ neck. He breathed in the scent of him. He kneaded Eames’ buttocks, groaning at their roundness, firmness, Eames-ness, and the memory of the many times he’d driven himself mad with wanting to touch and grind himself against them.

Arthur couldn’t stop and he couldn’t get enough of the smooth, warm body that hardened and soften and rolled and strained. Eames was a statue come to life, a statue that Arthur desperately wanted to fuck.

But just as Arthur was about to beg, the walls began to shake in the eerie manner of seismic activity.  

Arthur clung to Eames as swatches of fabric in slightly different shades of grey rained down upon them.

“Eames!”

Somewhere, a body lurched.  

And a fog rolled in.

* * *

 

Eames sat in a folding chair.

“Yusuf?” mumbled Arthur.

“Praying to a porcelain god.” At Arthur’s frown, Eames added with a nod towards the bathroom, “Loo. Bad curry.”

Arthur grunted. He shifted in the lounge chair, then grimaced.

“Sweet dreams?” asked Eames.

Arthur wracked his brain for a sharp rejoinder but, finding none, fell back on the truth.

“Sweet enough for me to cream a pair of $900 pants,” he said, giving his crotch a look of disgust.

“Nah,” said Eames as he got to his feet. “I doubt you’d part with more than forty quid for a two-pack. Pants, that is. Trousers, on the other hand…”

Arthur shot him a look.

Eames made a show of turning his back to Arthur and said, unapologetically, “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. You know, Shaw. Two countries, separated by a common language.”

Arthur reached for the red die on the table. After a roll and the result expected, he said, “Shaw never said that.”     

Eames turned back and helped Arthur remove the IV line.

As Arthur fussed with his shirt sleeve, Eames said, “Next time, Arthur, would you consider—?”

“No,” said Arthur, cutting him off. “Unlike most people, I don’t want my dreams, or fantasies rather, to come tr—”

“Will you let me finish, you bloody tit?!”

The rebuke reverberated all the way to Arthur’s carefully-trimmed toenails, and the splooge in his underwear suddenly felt even more juvenile. He raised a hand in a gesture of apology, then waved, bidding Eames continue.

“Next time, would you consider an audio recording?”

Arthur frowned. “Why?”

“You laughed,” said Eames, with a half-smile. “You laughed and said my name. That hasn’t happened since Lamu. Might be nice to have it archived for posterity. Or, you know, cold, lonely nights.”

Arthur stared. His mouth might have dropped open, he wasn’t sure.

How did the bastard do it?

How did Eames always manage to slip a surgeon’s scalpel between Arthur’s ribs and nick him some place deep and vital?

Arthur felt dizzy, lightheaded, weak. He imagined he heard a tiny hiss of escaping air, sensed a tiny rivulet of trickling blood. For a moment, he contemplated saying or doing something horribly, dreadfully, unforgivably reckless.

But the moment passed, and he muttered a faint ‘Next time.’

“Thanks,” said Eames.

And that was that.  

A disturbing retching sound broke the silence that followed.

“Maybe I should…” began Arthur.

“I’ll see to him,” said Eames. “And this, too, if you like.” He held open the lid of the case of the PASIV, which was now packed as carefully as if Arthur had done it himself.

“Thanks,” said Arthur. He’d brought a change of clothes, but with the bathroom otherwise occupied, he decided to make a beeline for the hotel and a hot shower. He grabbed his die and stood and reached for the handle of his small suitcase. He lifted his suit jacket from the back of the lounge chair and folded it over his arm.

“Good night, Eames. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

Arthur walked toward the elevator, rolling the suitcase behind him.

Eames whistled and called out, “Hate to see you go…”

Arthur dropped his head and smiled but did not look back or slow his pace. As he closed the distance to the elevator, there was a decided swagger in his step. He pressed the elevator button and mouthed along as Eames finished.

“…but love to watch you leave.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
